4/24/15

The Cars That Go Boom

I’ve seen my share of accidents along this dangerous stretch
of I-85 in upstate South Carolina. What I wasn’t fortunate enough to witness
myself has been conveniently photographed and printed on the front page of the
Gaffney Ledger. I’ve seen tractor-trailers overturned, crushing unsuspecting convertibles
and sporty hatchbacks. I’ve seen minivans ripped in half by trains. I’ve seen
delivery trucks dislodged of their fruit pie deliveries by the sudden
appearance of unlucky white-tailed bucks. But I can honestly say this was the
first time I’ve seen a car entirely engulfed in flames.

Sure, I’ve seen engines catch fire on occasion – what self-respecting
Southerner hasn’t? But a car with huge flames and toxic smoke billowing from
the interior, as if disposing of the evidence of a mob hit – this was new to
me. Yet there it was, parked on the side of the interstate, blazing in the
afternoon sun. As I drove past, I could see no evidence of what caused the
fire. An unattended cigar butt? A backseat campfire wienie roast? Richard
Pryor? The bewildered driver stood nearby, scratching his head in the familiar
manner of someone with a hissing radiator or flattened Goodyear, only this guy
had a car full of raging inferno. I reminded myself to check my Geico policy
for just such an eventuality.

It’s odd to consider that this is such an unusual occurrence,
seeing as the flaming automobile has been a motion picture cliché since Edison
rolled his first Model T. TV car chases are likely to end with tumbles into
California canyons, and no car flips down the mountain without then bursting
into flames (camera zooms in from below on Mannix or Manimal, wincing at the
carnage from the cliff above).
Burning autos are such a staple of American entertainment in fact that people
in other countries assume this happens on U.S. streets all the time. Granted,
citizens of Mumbai and Beirut are too busy fending off car bombs in their own
town squares to speculate on how many cars catch fire in the States, but to
those living in more tranquil, European utopias, American highway traffic seems
like one big monster truck rally. My friends in Germany seem genuinely
surprised when I tell them I’ve never witnessed an exploding car, seen a
drive-by shooting or jumped a Dodge over a muddy gulch while being pursued by
Boss Hogg.
But I assure you, meine Freunde, this was the first burning automobile I’ve
seen. And okay, I’m enough of an American male to admit that I thought it was
pretty cool. I was relieved to see that the driver was okay, naturally, but
mostly I gawked at the smoldering wreckage in slack-jawed gol-dernity. This is
genetic, you see. The male of the species is hard-wired to become transfixed by
violence. Look, I’m pretty nancy-boy in many respects. I’m the sort who enjoys
antiquing and laughing heartily at jokes involving Judy Garland, but even I
find myself entranced by big explosions or the promise of someone’s head
trauma. I’ll ignore the mind-numbing blather of any given TV set, yet find
myself snapping to attention as soon as one Hollywood actor begins punching
another one in the face. The only sport I like is boxing, but of course I would
happily watch highlight reels of NASCAR crashes for hours.
This is simply the male condition. Set up a construction site along any major
thoroughfare and watch every man-type person who walks by instinctively stare
at the thundering jackhammers and wrecking balls, secretly hoping for a
disastrous mishap of destructive power. Implosions of metropolitan buildings
are good; a nice sinkhole would be even better. And of course anything covered
in flames makes a man’s heart go pitter pat in a distinctly Cro-Magnon fashion.
When I was a kid, my fire chief father used to come home with stories of
catastrophic house fires and exploding oil tanks. It didn’t occur to me or my
brother to ask, “Was anyone hurt?” We wanted to know if anyone took pictures.
Once, Dad came home with a slide show of a particularly savage airfield fire,
complete with flaming plane wreckage and oil drums being launched into the air
from the heat’s intensity. It was the greatest day of our lives.
And it was clear that this poor motorist with the burning car, though shocked
into sobriety by his near-death experience, was also transfixed by the sight of
his melting Volvo. He was grateful to be alive – likely in need of fresh
underwear - but being a male, he could not deny that the flames pouring out of
his ride looked pretty damn bitchin’. I mean, what does
the typical male do when he wants his hot rod to look extra boss? He paints
flames on it, of course!

But I don’t want to belittle the guy’s tragedy. Besides the
fact that the car could have been his flaming deathtrap, the unfortunate soul
had to watch a beloved family vehicle disappear into a column of volcanic fury.
All those dutiful car payments wasted. All that loose change in the ashtray
useless. Perfectly good Kool Moe Dee cassingle in the glove box. One minute his
sporty, lime green friend was delivering him faithfully through the Wendy’s
drive-thru, the next minute it’s up in smoke.

I’m not really a car guy, but I learned to appreciate the
fine details of a classic automobile while constructing plastic model cars as a
boy. I’d give painstaking attention to every wiper blade and pinstripe, lovingly recreating the dashboard features and 8-cylinder engines and…
Well, and then I would take them outside and burn them. Sorry, I’m a male. Cars
aren’t nearly as cool without fire.

Who's Responsible for This?!

is an illustrator and opinionated crank living in the bygone century known as South Carolina. His wide variety of neurotic quirks and extreme sensitivity to broad social trends are chronicled as The Symptoms, a continuing blog of sophisticated tantrums. Ashley's work has appeared in many defunct publications and hard-to-sell books. He is considered a complete failure by those envious of his genius. He has a website for some reason: www.ashleyholt.com